Covered In Darkness
by RapunzelK
Summary: AU Exploratory. It's amazing the chain reactions that can be set off if just one thing is done differently. What if things had gone differently than they had in the movie? NOTE: References to 'Only Letters', and 'War Stories'.
1. Shot Down

"Ms. Mode, ze show, she was a brilliant success, no? Tell me, have you an opinion on it?"

Edna smiled down from her perch behind the podium. The stool teetered precariously but she held tight to the speaking platform to keep from losing her balance.

"I am very pleased with the new lineup," she began. The rest of her speech was lost to her own ears at the sudden echo of a metallic "_click_". She managed to keep from turning her head or her eyes toward the direction of the sound. Her lips moved, her voice neither caught nor faltered but remained steady. Still she felt her insides chill. That had been the sound of a hammer being cocked. There was a gunman in the room preparing to fire on someone, perhaps on her. Still talking, she raised a shield around herself and cast about for the mind of the assailant but strangely, found none. There were a few people who were indeed armed- one man even had a sword concealed inside his walking stick- but none of them were making use of their weapons. What on earth?

_Click_.

"Raise those hands, Heimy."

The hands, coated to the elbows in blood, were duly raised. Cold steel pressed into his temples just above the arm of his glasses. He closed his eyes. It didn't matter anymore. It would soon be over.

"Drop the knife."

He had no knife, only a scalpel still red from his interrupted attempts at saving one last young man's life. He let it fall. They would never allow the boy on the table to live anyway. They both wore grays; that was reason enough for condemnation. Anything German was worthy of death to them.

"What d'you got to say for yourself, Kraut?"

The rifle barrel pressed into his flesh, nearly forcing him off balance from the crate he stood on in order to reach the kitchen sidebar turned exam table. He didn't resist the cold bite of the metal, instead leaned into it slightly, refusing to wilt before the punishment he deserved. He regretted not defying them then. They might have shot him and all of this could have been avoided. He should have gone with her. How very little those lost credits mattered now. Nothing mattered anymore. He was ready for it to end. In faltering English, his voice thick with his heavy German accent and unshed tears, he said all he could say:

"…I'm sorry…"

**_BANG_**

She stopped in mid-sentence, her eyes going blank and wide as her head jerked to one side as if she'd been struck. Reporters and designers alike watched speechless as her tiny body crumbled, collapsing from the stepstool and landing with a dull smack on the polished marble floor. Fifteen extremely blank and silent seconds passed before the quiet fled and everyone rushed into action. Photographers snapped, reporters bellowed, and a handful of levelheaded souls formed a ring around Edna to keep her from being trampled to death under the sudden surge of attention.

It wasn't until one of the thinking persons attempting to keep the marauding reporters at bay bellowed "Get back you fiends, can't you see she's not breathing?!" that chaos truly began to ensue. Cameras flashed even more vigorously, bulbs popping and exploding as they were used and spent. A few more tenderhearted newsmongers came to their senses at the exclamation. Some and ran for the telephones to report their findings, others to ring the local hospitals, and a noble few did their best to drag their exuberant brethren away from the scene of the accident.

One final shot. A good five minutes after the initial shooting had ceased it rang out, stark and solitary, echoing by itself in the sudden silence. Something in it's empty echo made his heart shiver. He tried to shrug it off.

"Report."

"All clear, Sir."

"Very good. Where's MacDonnell?"

"Went in there, Sir."

The young private jerked his thumb at a hastily improvised structure consisting of half a bombed-out kitchen shed and a ragged German tent. The gunshot had sounded from inside. Hoping MacDonnell had not been on the receiving end, he crossed the rubbled yard and ducked inside.

"MacDonnell?" he called.

"Sir."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine Sir, just taking care of a little kraut coward. He was hiding away in here, but I found him."

Xerek surveyed the dim and dusty interior of the makeshift building. It looked as if the German forces had converted it into a hasty field hospital. Blood and half-bandaged Germans lay here and there, staining the gray earth with spent life. A much smaller body lay sprawled in the dirt behind MacDonnell. He stopped in mid-thought, about to ask MacDonnell if the child had been dead when he found him. Instead the words died on his tongue as he approached and got a closer look.

"Oh my God…"

Ghosts of memories fled through his mind, his heart and stomach clenching at the sight. This was no child; this was…had been…a friend.

_Karl…_

The little doctor lay on one side, one arm out, the other flopped over his middle, almost hidden in the too-big uniform jacket of storm trooper gray. Eyes to which the world had been laid bare down to its very molecules now rested closed, forever blinded. His thick glasses- bent and badly scratched but amazingly still intact- had been jarred out of place, the arms still hooked behind his ears, but the lenses uselessly tilted up towards his forehead away from his now empty eyes. A gaping hole through his right temple seeped dark red blood. More was rising on the ground, flooding his head in a small sea of muddied crimson. It had gone straight through. Instantaneous death. He would not have suffered. It was a meager and very empty consolation.

He closed his eyes and lowered his head where he knelt, taking a moment to collect both thoughts and feelings. In the back of his mind he wondered how in the name of all that was good and sweet had Karl come to serve under German forces? It hardly mattered now. Opening his eyes again and surveying all that was left of his friend, the deep lines and patches of gray in the smaller man's face and hair told a plain enough story. Whatever had happened to him had happened against his will.

"Sir?"

He had forgotten MacDonnell was still there.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Rather than answer, Xerek simply stood and turned to face his subordinate. He couldn't be angry with him. There was no way the boy could have known. Looking at MacDonnell's dirty, freckled face Xerek couldn't even muster the energy to scold him.

"Gather the others and get out your shovels. Dig a grave. Four by three by six."

MacDonnell blinked. "Sir?"

"We are going to give this man a Christian burial."

The blank look turned to an astonished gawk.

"But…Sir…! He's a…he's…"

"A covert agent." It wasn't a lie. Not exactly. Xerek might not have known the story of Karl's misadventures, but he had known the little doctor and his convictions. He deserved this much at least. He noticed that MacDonnell's eyes had grown very wide indeed and his face had turned pale beneath the thick layer of grime.

"Oh shit…" he whispered. "And I… Oh _shit_ …!"

"Never mind," his commander told him, "you had no idea, nor should you. There's nothing to be done about it now except lay him to rest."

"Yes, Sir," MacDonnell swallowed and hurried outside, shovel in hand.

The half-sized grave was made at the foot of a tree knocked crooked from a dud shell. A bandage wound around his head to conceal the bullet wound, Karl, on Xerek's orders, was relieved of his German jacket and fitted with a cast off British coat. It was easily five times too big for him, but that hardly mattered. The sleeves rolled back, Xerek pinned one his own stars to the collar. MacDonnell and Cox wrapped him in a ragged checkered tablecloth before laying him to rest. Half his dog tags were nailed to the tree, the other half Xerek kept along with his glasses.

Weeks later, while boiling a pot of coffee and another of socks over a small campfire, Xerek picked up a sheet of scavenged newspaper intended to feed the meager flames. His eyebrows rose in surprise not so much at the French headline but at the photograph below.

Edna lay on the floor on her side in an eerily familiar pose, left arm stretched out before her, the other draped haphazardly over her torso as if in a faint. Her hair astray and her glasses knocked out of place, it seemed the photographers had seized this rare chance to capture the renowned fashion designer looking slightly less than perfect for smaller variations of the original photo dotted the page. Xerek studied the smudged French newsprint until he could translate what had happened.

_**Cature Queen Collapses at London Exhibit.** Rising fashion genius Edna Mode collapsed suddenly at the London exhibit of her Spring show. Ms. Mode unexpectedly fainted while in the middle of a Q/A session of an international press. She was taken by hospital van to_ (here the name was smudged) _where she lies recovering. Doctors have described Ms. Mode's condition as "stable". Eye witnesses state Ms. Mode was in good health and did not appear ill or in any way distraught before the press conference. Ms. Mode has never exhibited symptoms of stage fright or been inclined to fainting spells, say those close to her. Her collapse was unexpected and troubling to all present. Cont. p14._

Page fourteen, however, did not seem to be in attendance. With a sigh, Xerek folded up the page and wrapped it around Karl's glasses. He would carry them in his pocket for another three years before he would get a chance to present them.

A lot could happen in three years. Edna, from her new home in New York, had thought she had left her ghosts behind in Europe when one walked through her door. The last time she had seen or heard from Julian Xerek was in 1939. Now on the other side of 1946 and the Atlantic Ocean, from another country, indeed another lifetime, things felt strange and different. She was, in all honesty, glad to see him alive and unharmed. There were perhaps a few more lines on his face, a few more gray strands creeping into his hair, but it was still Xerek. Because of that, she smiled. A small, tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

It wasn't the quietness of her apartment, nor her entirely black dress that gave it away. As a self-trained telepath, E couldn't help the strong aura of thought and emotion that always surrounded her. It was completely invisible to most people, but Xerek was not most people. Though his abilities lay in sensing technology, as soon as he stepped through her door, it was evident.

She already knew.

Had known. Indeed now that he thought about it, it made sense. Her collapse at the fashion exhibit was evidence of that. She had loved Karl. No doubt she had formed some sort of psychic attachment to him, an invisible bond of awareness. When Karl had been shot, she had felt it too.

They stood and regarded one another briefly. There was no verbal greeting, no offering of a friendly hand. There was no need. They both knew why he had come. Without saying a word, Xerek fished in his inner jacket pocket. The yellowed newsprint crackled slightly under his touch. Sinking to one knee, he offered Edna the battered package, a fellow soldier returning the favor of her fallen champion. She swallowed hard before accepting the ragged bundle. Though she did not possess Karl's gift of X-ray vision, she seemed to see inside the tattered wrapping. The rolled-stiff paper unfolded, a pair battered glasses, bent arms folded at rest reflected softly in the lenses of her own out-sized spectacles. Squeezing her eyes shut, she lowered her head, clutching the mangled glasses tightly. She had known in her heart, but that did not make the physical proof any less painful. She sniffed once, her slight body shuddering briefly. Xerek had seen Edna calm, commanding, enraged. She had exhibited the full spectrum of female emotion except for one thing: Xerek could not in memory recall her crying. Not out of pain, out of sorrow, not for any reason. In an era where women had been typecast as simpering, sentimental and weepy, E had had no time for tears. And yet…

Her head bowed and her face obscured by her bangs, her shoulders shook with half-swallowed sobs. Paper and glasses clutched to her chest she stood there and vainly tried to hold her tears. The drops spilled over against her will, falling to the floor with a silent splash. Xerek, though inexperienced in dealing with emotional outbursts, could not help the sympathy her tears were squeezing from his heart, nor the choking sensation that followed. He never knew quite what to do in these situations, so it came as a vague surprise when he found he had reached and placed a hand on her little shoulder. Their heights nearly evened by Xerek's kneeling on the floor she stepped forward and leaned her head on his shoulder. Surrendering to her grief, she cried, too exhausted to hold her tears any longer. Under any other circumstances, it would have been extremely awkward. Perhaps it was their mutual grief that reduced the discomfort. At any rate it was with only mild clumsiness that Xerek loosely put his arms around her and held her close. The pain radiating from the tiny woman in his arms cut at his own emotions and he found his own eyes welling up. It was all right. For the moment, appearances did not matter. He patted her shoulder gently as if to say,

_I'm sorry._

She sniffed quietly in response.

_Thank you…_


	2. Tough Break

"I'll go get the police!"

"No wait!" Mr. Incredible called after the small boy.

"No really it'll just take a minute, I'll be right back," Buddy grinned and waved as he jumped out the window, homemade rockets firing.

"NO!" the hero shouted, reaching and only just managing to grab hold of the boy's tablecloth cape. "STOP!"

"Hey stop it!" Buddy yelled, kicking frantically at the sudden addition of 208lbs.

"There's…a….bomb!" Mr. Incredible grunted, trying to avoid Buddy's exhaust while holding on to the improvised cape as well as remove the bomb. Without warning the fabric tore from his hands. He grabbed wildly for anything to hold onto and found himself gripping one of the thrusters of Buddy's rocket sneakers. The fragile metal, however, was not meant to bear the weight of a full-grown adult, much less a super-human twice as dense and heavy as a regular man. It snapped in half, falling to the streets far below.

"Knock it off!" Buddy protested, still completely unaware of the danger. "You're wrecking my flight pattern!"

"SHUT UP AND HOLD STILL!" Mr. Incredible bellowed over the roar of the remaining rocket and the rush of the wind as he and his would-be sidekick zigged and zagged above the Metroville skyline.

"LET GO!"

"THERE'S A BOMB!!!"

Cameras flashed, hands waved while others met in thunderous applause, reporters bellowed questions. She simply smiled and nodded her head in acceptance. It was not vanity, it was simply the reward of a job well done. She was pleased that they were impressed with her work. What could be better? Wait a minute? What was that?

From her vantage at the top of the tall and elegant hotel staircase the movement was clearly visible. Granted the teeming crowd was clad entirely in black and white and most everyone was wearing makeup in some form, but no one- as far as she could recall- had come dressed as a mime.

_Bomb Voyage…_

There were supers in the crowd. They could deal with him, all she had to do was page them and…

_Oh no…_

**_BOOM_**

A face full of smoke and a powerful kick of fire and alcohol was the only warning he got. He couldn't have held on any longer if he wanted to. The blast threw him one direction, the boy in another. The soot in his eyes blinded him to the rapidly approaching pavement. He found out quickly enough the hard way. His back connected with enough force to press a crater into the asphalt. He groaned and lay there for a moment, his body shivering in pain from the impact.

"Oh god…" he groaned, wondering if he'd broken more than just a chunk of Main Street. He tested his limbs experimentally. Holy cow…he wasn't paralyzed. He was, however, in a lot of pain. Pain. Buddy. Oh God. Where was the little pest? Dragging himself out of the smashed concrete, he looked over.

The redheaded boy lay-face down on the pavement a few yards away, motionless. Mr. Incredible's eyes grew wide, fearing the worst. A fall from that height would have surely killed such an ordinary child instantly. He blinked and started as Buddy twitched. Slowly, painfully, the boy peeled himself from the street. Mr. Incredible looked up briefly, wondering how on earth the boy could have survived such a fall. Several torn window awnings and a dented streetlamp provided the answer. The canvas tarps and streetlight had slowed his descent, so the boy would only suffer a broken nose and jaw instead of joining the angels. So much for small miracles.

Further surveying the scene, Mr. Incredible couldn't help cringing. Two buildings were now surrounded by their own smoke, flames licking through the windows of one. God what a mess.

"Mister... In..." Buddy choked, face now free from the roadway. The boy coughed and gagged, spitting blood and teeth onto the pavement. His cape spread out over him, the bottom edge blown away where the bomb had been, he lay on his stomach and looked up at his hero.

The poor kid… If only he'd been able to grab the bomb. If only he'd be able to… Wait a minute. He'd TOLD the kid to go home. He'd tried to be nice, he'd put up with the kid's shenanigans for as long as he could. It wasn't his fault. Not this time. Pity froze and then burst into white-hot flames of anger. If this stupid kid hadn't butted in. If the little punk had just LISTENED. This was ALL HIS FAULT. Mr. Incredible could hardly believe his own ears as he heard his voice climb from a dangerous growl to a mad bark of rage.

"What, you want me to HELP you? After you put all those people at risk? After they could have been killed? You caused BOMB VOYAGE to get AWAY. Who KNOWS what he's up to, and how many people are going to be hurt because of YOUR mistake. No, no. Good riddance, Buddy Pine. I hope this teaches you your place. Stay out of my business."

With that he turned and walked away. An ambulance was already pulling up to the battered intersection. The paramedics would take care of him. He was done with this kid.

He got the phone call at virtually the same time. The spring show had been advertised on television for months, and as he didn't get much chance to visit, Xerek had promised himself he'd tune in. He didn't care much for gowns or makeup, indeed the concept of fashion was rather lost on him, but it was a chance to see and hear an old friend, if from a distance.

It had been a nice show, even if it had been peppered with commercials. It was winding down now. Edna stood at the top of a rather imposing flight of marble stairs, nodding graciously to the applause she had so rightly earned. She began to descend the stairs, her staff of models and subordinate designers in tow. Without warning the picture shook violently. For a moment Xerek wondered if the BBC signal had gone on the fritz, but the television was making no complaint. Instead, he realized in horror, something had gone wrong at the fashion exhibit. On screen, the ground trembled violently and everyone pitched to the floor, the hapless group on the stairs tumbling down the sharp marble edges. Smoke rose, a chandelier crashed off camera. The picture suddenly fell sideways and then vanished as it was replaced by the blank chatter of a breakfast cereal commercial.

The phone rang, nearly startling him out of his seat. He grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear.

"Hello?"

Incoherent gushing poured from the earpiece amid high-pitched sobs. Samantha?

"Samantha? Samantha is that you?"

Yes, yes it was. Wailing, something about Buddy.

"Slow down, I can't understand you. Calm down, take a deep breath. Good girl. Now, what happened?"

The tirade began again. Buddy. Something about Buddy, Buddy being hurt. Badly.

"WHAT?!" he burst as his daughter's blubbering finally solidified into a coherent message. "Never mind. No I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can. Yes, just stay there. All right, all right, calm down. Wait until the doctors give you an answer before you panic, all right? Shhh… Yes. All right. See you in a little bit. Goodbye."

Hanging up the phone, he eyed the television briefly, hoping for an update on E's ruined fashion show. Commercials. Brilliant. Why did disasters have to happen on the same day? Putting a hand to his head, he took a mental step back.

_Snug?_

_Roger_ came the scratchy reply.

_I need a seat on your next flight to America. Metroville. NOW_.

_This a rush?_

_Yes, my grandson's been hurt._

_Roger. Got a Heathrow to LaGuardia in about an hour. Will that do?_

An hour. Damn. Well, he still had to pack and get to the station and check in and so forth. An hour really wasn't all that much time. Still, he'd be ready. He grabbed his suitcase from the closet and hastily began stuffing it with whites from a dresser drawer, only half paying attention to what was going in.

_It'll have to._

_See ya then._

_Very good. Over and out._

"BACK! BACK YOU SAVAGES, BACK!" E made good use of the boring and outdated magazine she'd been given. As reading material it was useless, but as a weapon, it was proving quite effective.

"I _SAID_ DON'T _TOUCH_ ME!!!"

The offending nurse didn't dodge quickly enough and got her cap knocked off. Other white-clad attendants wisely kept their distance.

"Ms. Mode, please…" the doctor pleaded, "your leg…"

"It'll be FINE," she snapped, still brandishing the magazine. She knew as well as they did that it was a lie. Bruised and absolutely coated in dust from falling plaster and shards of glass and crystal from a shattered chandelier, her injuries were minor with the exception of her left leg. Half sitting as she was, it was painful in the extreme. It lay turned in farther than the radius of a human hip could manage, the knee bent and further turned so that it lay in crooked profile next to the other. She had refused to let anyone come near her, let alone touch her leg to examine it. It was probably dislocated, almost certainly broken, but without an X-ray or some sort of closer examination it was impossible to tell the full extent of the damage.

"Please, at least let us take X-rays, pop it back in?" The doctor dared to look hopeful as the tiny fashion designer regarded him. "We can't in good conscience allow you to leave like this, not without some sort of treatment."

"All right. Fine," she groused, crossing her arms. "X-rays, then. That's all. Nothing else till you get a hold of my personal physician."

The doctor breathed a visible sigh of relief. "All right, yes, that will be fine. We'll let you know the minute we contact him."

The doctor retreated, seeming only too glad to get away from the miniature wrath of the woman on the bed. The hapless nurses were left to deal with her. Amazingly, the magazine was not taken up against them as they attempted to clean her up and get her situated. There was, however, a great deal of yelling and cursing in several different languages.

E was the only woman Xerek knew of who could say "mutton-headed idiots" in Japanese as well as German, French, Spanish, and Italian. Therefore the half-cursed mix of languages from across the hall where he and Samantha sat waiting attracted his attention. With a brief "I'll be right back" he rose to see what the difficulty was. He had suspected the source of the noise, but it was still a surprise to see E, bedraggled and apparently injured, surrounded by nurses.

"E?" he blinked.

"Xerek?" she seemed equally surprised if the blank gawk on her face was any indication. It softened into a sort of half-smile but remained confused. "Vhat are you doing here?"

"Is this man a relative?" one of the nurses asked.

"Something like that. Shoo, all of you."

The nurses obligingly shooed.

"What happened to you?" Xerek asked, coming over and taking a seat nearby. E rolled her eyes and made a face.

"Bomb Voyage decided to crash my show. Literally. Fell down that damned flight of stairs at the Hilton," she rubbed her injured leg gingerly. "I would have been fine if one of those stupid King George chandeliers hadn't landed on me once I hit bottom."

Xerek gave a sympathetic wince. "That couldn't have been much fun."

"No," she agreed, "it vasn't."

"What have the doctor's said?"

At this she grew nervous, taking a moment to search for an answer.

"No one can get a hold of Berkley. It's as if they've all suddenly dropped off the face of the planet."

She meant the super doc's. Physicians to the supers, they were supers themselves but lacked the brute strength displayed by their mask-wearing brothers and sisters. Instead they functioned as support crew, providing health care much the way E provided costumes and equipment.

"I'm not surprised, have you seen the headlines?"

She shook her head making her dark bob sway. "No."

He took a deep breath. "There was an accident earlier. My grandson, Buddy…er…Robert, do you remember him?"

She nodded. "Somewhat. Is he all right?"

"Well, that's the difficulty. He absolutely idolizes Mr. Incredible and his mother, my Samantha, had hoped he'd manifest abilities of some sort as he got older… He… I don't know what he was thinking, but he tried to tag along with Mr. Incredible as a side-kick."

E's gawk returned. "Side-kick?! He's what? Ten?"

"Eight, actually."

E covered her face with a hand and muttered something in German.

"Oh good grief. That can't have gone well."

"No, it didn't."

"Is he all right?"

"We're waiting to find out…"

E's eyes grew wide. "What happened?"

"Buddy's still out cold so the details are rather sketchy. From the looks of things, he tried to tag along and accidentally botched an encounter with Bomb Voyage. If I had to guess I'd say Buddy got a hand-held stuck to his cape."

E's eyes widened in horror. "Is…is he all right? Was he hurt?"

"Everything below the knee is entirely gone. He's in surgery now… He…he SHOULD be all right but…" Xerek broke off and rubbed his face with one hand. A light touch drew his eyes upward again as E laid a tiny hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry dahling," she said softly, unshed tears shining in her eyes. "At least he's alive."

Xerek nodded, forcing himself to take hold of his emotions once more. "Yes. Yes there is that. He's still alive."

"You still haven't told me why all the doctors have mysteriously vanished?" E prompted, attempting to change the subject in order to keep things from becoming too distressing.

"Yes. Well, that's the other half of the story. Evidently before Buddy interrupted, Mr. Incredible stopped a gentleman from committing suicide."

"You'd think he'd be grateful," she mused.

"One would. However, he isn't. No more than an hour ago he filed a lawsuit against Mr. Incredible. I suppose he needed money for the hospital bills- he was injured during the rescue."

"Ouch."

"Yes. But that's not the worst of it. Once he decided to sue Mr. Incredible others decided to follow along. Everyone from the bombed office, your spoiled fashion show, and those involved in the wreck on Main Street have filed suit against Mr. Incredible. More complaints against other supers have been filed as well."

She sat and stared, utterly floored.

"But…why?"

He shrugged. "I suppose everyone was tired of the property damage. You must admit, supers are a bit hard on the architecture."

"Yes but still!"

He shook his head. "I don't understand it either. All I know is this: we are in real trouble, E. If anyone finds out about you or I or Samantha… I'm afraid of what will happen. I think that's the reason Berkley and the others are lying low. They're probably afraid of malpractice suits."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. That makes sense. In which case, there's no point in me staying here only to be unmasked and sued out of my livelihood."

Xerek smiled. "I think you have the least to lose out of all of us, E. After all, you haven't a single suit malfunction to blacken your good name."

She snerked at that. "Heh. Even still, I'd rather not give anyone the opportunity to start something, real or imagined. Come, help me up."

Face scrunched against the pain she began to inch towards the edge of the bed.

"Are you mad?" Xerek asked, reaching to stop her. "You can't go home like this! You can't even stand!"

"I don't trust mere mortals to toy with my insides," she retorted. "Once things blow over I'll be sure to get looked at properly."

He eyed her dubiously.

"I promise!"

"I'll hold you to that," he warned, reaching and bodily lifting her from the bed and carefully standing her on her feet. She wobbled precariously on one leg, the other still bent and turned in uselessly, unable to even stretch to reach the floor.

"This may be difficult…"

"Why don't I page your chauffer? He can retrieve you without raising too many eyebrows."

She nodded. "Yes, good idea. If you would, please."

Xerek nodded and took a mental step back, alerting Edna's driver.

"Mr. Xerek?" a doctor had stuck his head into the room. "Your grandson's awake."

Xerek turned to E who still stood balancing on her remaining leg.

"Go," she told him, "see to your own family."

"Don't discredit yourself," he told her, scooping her up and following the doctor out. She blushed but made no protest, only hung on, quietly accepting the dual humiliation and favor of being carried.

In the hall Samantha sat crying on one of the many hard, wooden benches. She stopped abruptly and looked up at the sound of her father's heavy step. She blinked several times, goggling slightly at the sight of Edna being borne along in his arms.

"Daddy, Ms. Mode," she said blankly, standing and shaking hands with E.

"It's good to see you dahling," E smiled gently. "I only wish it were under better circumstances."

Samantha nodded dumbly and fell into step with them. The walk to the ICU was long and tense, their footsteps clattering loudly in the sterile, white corridors. To Samantha the ward seemed eerily quiet, to E it hummed and moaned with the stupefied wails of drugged minds, to Xerek it was filled with the white noise of mechanical chatter and sighs from overworked machinery. Buddy's room was near the end of the ward, still full of doctors and nurses. Samantha grabbed her father's arm and pressed her other hand over her mouth. E bit her lip. Xerek had to admit, it was a difficult scene to look at.

Buddy lay on his back, the truncated ends of his legs heavily wrapped and propped straight up in the air by a stack of pillows. His face was thickly bandaged and an entire cage seemed to have been stuffed into his mouth, wires and stretches of rubber protruding from his lips. Xerek remembered Samantha's frantic phone call about the initial test flight of Buddy's rocket boots. He'd been only six then and had crash-landed face-first on the sidewalk. He'd needed a great deal of bridgework then, now it seemed it would all have to be replaced. At least, Xerek thought with dismal optimism, not many of Buddy's adult teeth had come in yet.

"BUDDY!" Samantha shrieked, suddenly releasing Xerek and lunging for her son. "Buddy what were you THINKING?!" she bawled, half glad, half furious. "You could have been KILLED! Haven't I told you a hundred times those things-" E assumed she meant the rocket boots- "were dangerous?!"

Buddy, eyes half closed with pain killer and bruising, blinked blearily at his mother. Tears rose in his bloodied blue eyes as if to say, "I'm sorry, mother".

"Now you'll never walk, or run, or jump, or play or do anything again! You'll be crippled! You'll be stuck in a wheelchair the rest of your life!"

E winced slightly at Samantha's hysterical tirade. Granted half of what she was saying was the result of so much stress and worrying, but the other half… Once a beautiful and alluring super hero herself, Samantha had had to retire due to an injury. Often a partner with Mr. Incredible, Vectress was strong but not to the degree he was. She'd hurt her back and that was the end of her vigilante career. She had not taken it well. Unable to answer the call of Justice, she'd begun trying to live her dreams through Buddy. But Buddy was young and it sometimes took years for super powers to fully manifest. Buddy, so far, had proven to be an exceptionally bright little boy, but that was where the exceptional ended.

"Now you'll…now you'll never…" Samantha's hiccoughed words died off; drowned in renewed tears. She gave no further attempt at speaking, only sat down and blubbered into her handkerchief. E, however, heard the rest of the sentence and cringed. With a start, she realized she wasn't the only one who'd heard those unspoken words. A small, wordless echo shuddered and then vanished. The silent sound was as invisible tears, unheard sobs in Edna's ears. She wondered briefly if Buddy had heard after all what his mother could not bring herself to say in front of him,

_Now you'll never be super…_


	3. Breaking Toothpicks

"Call off the missiles, NOW!"

"Or what?" Syndrome sneered. Mirage glanced nervously from hero to villain, her life balanced precariously in the scales of their hands.

"Or I'll CRUSH her…" Mr. Incredible growled, his huge arms tightening around her. Mirage barely contained a squeak of fear and pleaded desperately to Syndrome with her eyes for him to save her. Syndrome simply looked on, hands on his hips, an amused smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"Gee, that sounds a little dark for you…" he mused aloud. Mr. Incredible's scowl and grip simultaneously grew deeper. Syndrome seemed to consider for a moment and then shrugged, turning his back.

"Aww go ahead."

"It would be easy…" Mr. Incredible rumbled, "like breaking a toothpick…"

Small rivulets of sweat had begun to trickle down Mirage's narrow back and she trembled under the famed Super's crushing grip.

"Show me," Syndrome dared, an evil smirk quirking his lips and eyebrows. Mirage's almond eyes widened in horror. He couldn't be serious, surely he wouldn't really let him do this to her! Surely heroes didn't kill the damsel in distress! Mr. Incredible's bulging arms shook slightly as they pressed down on her and she felt herself gasping for air. Her eyes darted from one face to the other: Syndrome's expression a defiant smirk, Mr. Incredible's only a grim and stony frown.

"Syndrome…" she gasped, "Syndrome help!"

If his heart had wavered, he didn't show it. Syndrome stood where he was, unmoving, calmly watching as Mr. Incredible bore down the full force of his strength on Mirage's unprotected ribs. A loud SNAP echoed off the sterile walls of the chamber and Mirage shrieked with what little air she had. The first snap was followed by another, and another, and another as her ribs cracked and gave way one by one.

Syndrome's eyebrows rose and his eyes grew wide. No. No this wasn't happening. Mr. Incredible was a hero, a paladin, incapable of anything but Truth, Justice, and the American Way. This…this defied everything he had ever known about the greatest Super of them all. Mr. Incredible, head bowed and face set in a grimace that showed his clenched, perfectly straight white teeth, did not look up, did not let go. Mirage gagged, kicking her long legs uselessly as he pressed the life out of her. His hero was acting like a _villain_.

"Wait!" Syndrome cried, stepping forward and reaching out a hand. "Stop! Put her down!"

Mr. Incredible finally looked up, his expression hard and cold. "Call off the missiles!" he demanded.

"Abort missile sequence!" Syndrome called to the nearby guard who hurried to terminate the path of the tracking missiles.

"All right I've called off the missiles. Now put her down." Syndrome's steps were shaky as he climbed the stairs to the ZPE containment unit. Mr. Incredible glared at him out of the tops of his eyes, his grip around Mirage no looser than before. Her face had turned dark and her legs and arms hung limp.

"Turn off the containment field." Mr. Incredible growled. Not knowing what else to do, Syndrome signaled to another guard who cut the power to the electronic restraints. In one movement Mr. Incredible dropped Mirage and descended to the floor. With the same breath he pulled back one enormous fist and drove it into Syndrome's face. The impact sent the young would-be villain flying backwards, crashing into a computer console and then the floor. He lay there, dazed, as Mr. Incredible's upside-down figure darted out the open chamber door.

A faint gurgle pulled him back to the present.

_Mirage._

With deliberate effort he picked himself up off the floor, pausing only long enough to spit blood and teeth before stumbling over to Mirage's crumpled form. Like a sacrifice offered to some heathen god, she lay crushed and bleeding at the top of the platform steps. By some miracle she was still breathing if not well. Blood gurgled in her throat and trickled from her mouth, her chest squashed almost completely flat. Tears flooded Syndrome's eyes as he fought the urge to be sick.

"Oh god…" he blubbered around broken teeth and a split lip. "Mirage I…I…"

"You're hurt…" she croaked, green eyes blurring in and out of focus, running with tears of pain and regret.

"Shhh…just…just relax. You'll be okay." he told her gently, stroking her hair and staining her forehead with a gory kiss. "Someone get a medical team in here NOW!" he barked at the remaining guards who were still sitting in stunned silence. They jumped and scrambled to obey. It would take a good minute or two for the medical team to arrive. Minutes he knew Mirage did not have.

"Mirage I'm so sorry…" he sobbed once the guards had gone, tears loosening the adhesive behind his mask. "I didn't…I didn't think he'd…I…"

He broke off as she coughed, a wave of blood spilling from her mouth and across his knees. Carefully, he lay down on the floor next to her and cradled her head in his arms. Spreading his cape over her ruined body, he held her close.

"I'm glad…you're okay…" she breathed silently.

"Thanks to you…" He kissed her forehead again, worsening the bloody print he'd left before. He felt her relax in his arms, the muscles in her neck and jaw go limp, her head grow heavy. As if falling asleep her eyes drifted closed and her face turned toward him, snuggled in the hollow of his shoulder. Syndrome swallowed hard.

"I love you…"

Too late. To late the words left his mangled lips, too late the medical staff burst in. Too late he'd acted to save her. Too late. But not too late, he reflected as he allowed one of the doctors to clean him up, to get even.


	4. Out of Darkness

There was no need for theatrics, the door was unlocked. Indeed the whole complex was dark and silent. No electricity hummed in the wires of the fence, the empty eyes of the security cameras stared sightlessly as he passed. Everything had been shut down. He strode up to her front door undetected, unseen, untouched. He almost rang her doorbell. It was easy. Too easy. The whole business reeked of "trap" and yet what could one ninety-year-old artist possibly do to him? Even with all of her security devices deactivated she _had_ to know he was here. But if that was the case, why had everything been shut down?

Again the strange sense of foreboding crept up his spine. Every instinct pushed him to turn and run. Ruthlessly, he shoved the feeling aside. This was ridiculous. It didn't matter whether she tried to block his passage with four acres of barbed wire and a missile assault or put the welcome mat out for him. He would still win this. He would still come out on top. He would be the one to survive this, not her. This was no different from any other Boss battle. How much of a battle could it be, really? Stepping over the threshold and into the narrow hall he was greeted only by the dim light of display cases, each highlighting an ancient piece of pottery- mostly Greek or Asian urns by the look of them. He shook himself. This was no time to admire antiquities. Water lapped softly with the weight of his steps against the walkway, the shallow pools reflecting the soft blue light of the display lamps. It was beautiful and made him feel as if he were wandering underwater. Again he had to shake himself. Perhaps this was the danger of this place, not physical but visual booby traps: the temptation of beauty, of peace, the queer sensation of calm and security even though his purpose in coming was anything but peaceful. He couldn't let it get to him. He had a job to do.

The soft blue dimness of the hall gave way to a sharper but equally dark ambience of a much larger room. The expanse was huge and square, a massive cube of glass leaving the room open to the night and allowing the cold light of the November stars to shine through. A fountain, indistinct and angular in the shadows, flowed silently at the opposite end of the room, the pool surrounding it dimly illuminated by the same silent blue light as the urns in the hall. It reflected faintly off the dark, polished surface of cubist chairs and a ring-like coffee table. A set of stairs seemed to hang in midair in one corner, leading up through the darkness to an unseen second floor. There was, as far as he could see, nothing else in the room. No one was home. He had come here for nothing.

Until she lifted her head, the sudden gleam of light on glass catching him by surprise. Almost completely hidden in the shadowed seat of one of the chairs, she sat and looked at him, the moonlight giving a silvered, owlish stare to the wide lenses of her glasses. Those two empty circles of light staring at him in the darkness chilled his insides. He shouldn't be afraid. She was only an old woman sitting in the darkness of her parlor much like a black cat hiding in a jungle of furniture legs. She was not dangerous. There was no way that she could be. Yet the sense that something was out of place would not leave him. What was wrong with this picture? For the third time he shook himself. Enough. He had a job to do. Raising one hand, he fired.

The blank and silver lenses did not move, did not blink. The beam of blue energy shot towards her only to stop short, the light splashing slightly as if water before becoming absorbed into her opened hand. She held it up as if in blessing, palm towards him, arm slightly bent, the gesture seeming to take no effort at all. He gawked stupidly, still holding the beam. How could she deflect Zero Point like that? By all accounts she wasn't Super, only an eccentric, crotchety old lady. She only made outfits for supers; she wasn't supposed to be Super herself. A scratching, graveled voice spoke, scattering his startled thoughts.

"You won't get anywhere that way, dahling."

Abruptly, he dropped the beam. Her hand, white and tiny in the moonlight, slowly fell and retreated back into shadow. The walls were glass, the door at the end of the hallway behind him thin and unlocked, there were any number of escape routes he could employ and yet he had the constricting feeling that he was trapped. There was no escape- not from the room itself- but from the tiny woman sitting hidden in the shadows. The whole situation had an unpleasant cat-and-mouse feeling.

_No_.

No. He gave himself yet another mental shake. No, he was not going to be the victim here. He had come to put an end to her black market dealings with the remaining Supers, with setting up deluded children hoping to be something more than they had a right to be. He had come to cripple her, to see that she stuck to the realm of _Vogue_ and _Red Book_ where she belonged. But now that she'd proven herself Super, she would have to die as well. To think he'd missed her all these years, all those times and places. He'd never imagined she was anything other than what she'd appeared to be: a harmless, powerless fashion designer. Apparently that was not the case. The old cat curled mutely in the shadows still had her claws, but if she thought she was going to trap him she was mistaken. She'd find she'd lured not a mouse but a Pitbull into her den and he'd tear her limb from limb if he had to.

Even if he didn't want to.

And he didn't want to.

But he had to. It had to be done. Just as it'd had to be done all those other times. Supers had no place in this world, in any world. Not even ninety-year-old grandmother ones. It had to stop. And it would stop here.

He made to advance down the flight of stairs to the main level of the foyer, but the metal caps of his rockets slipped on the narrow slice of marble. He tried to catch himself but gravity had already grabbed and flung him downward. It was not a long fall, but contained many bumps against the cold, hard edges of the stairs and had him rolled in his cape till he reached the bottom. Hissing curses to himself, he threw back his cape and picked himself up.

"Are you all right?"

He blinked. Strangely, the question had not been intended to mock. She honestly wanted to know if he had been injured. Aside from a bruised ego and a wide rip in the left knee of his costume, he was unhurt.

"Fine," he answered curtly.

The glimmer of her glasses vanished briefly as she nodded. He could feel her empty stare on his bared knee and struggled to keep the color from rising in his cheeks, to keep his hand from twitching his cape forward to cover the rent in the fabric and the artificial leg beneath. Instead he forced himself to stand before her unruffled, brazen, daring her to comment. She said nothing, her unseen eyes turning to his face.

"Well?" she prompted.

He glowered, suddenly angry. Raising his hand he fired a second time, only to have that beam deflected the same as the first.

"I told you that won't work, dahling. You can't kill me that way."

"Oh really?"

"Really."

He could only guess if she was telling the truth or not. Something inside told him it would be unwise to test her words. If she had been able to catch his Zero Point ray, then she had a fairly significant amount of power, probably not unlike his own. That might make things difficult. She was right. Zero Point seemed useless against her. That was all right. He'd killed with his hands before. He could do it again. It would probably be easy. She was old and frail. He'd make it quick. He wouldn't make her suffer. He had no reason to draw it out.

The faint rustle of fabric interrupted his thoughts. The mirror of her glasses vanished momentarily as she leaned forward and slid from her seat. The sound of tiny, slippered feet and the sharper clack of a third object against the marble floor met his ears. The clack accompanied the softer tap and shuffle of her steps. With a vague start he realized she must be leaning on a cane. Why this should come as a surprise, he had no idea. It only made sense that a woman so old would need a third leg to help her stay on her feet. Lots of elderly people needed a cane to walk. As she finally crossed from the safety of the shadows into the stark whiteness of the moonlight, his eyes grew wide. He had not expected this.

She was tiny, almost ridiculously so, the top of her head only barely reaching above his waistline. That head bore not silver, but pearl white hair, hanging smooth and perfectly straight to her jaw. Her eyes, once hidden behind the reflection of lenses huge and thick, now peered up at him, dark and sharp. Her face was creased more than wrinkled. The lines on her taut features showed that life had not been kind to her either, and yet there was a strange almost macabre beauty about it. Despite her legendary genius in clothing for others, her own gown was rather plain by comparison. She wore a smock-like dress of simple black, with blousy sleeves and a skirt that fell just below her knees. She had no hunch to her shoulders, did not stoop over her cane- though to call the short stick of dark and polished wood with a silver knob for a handle a cane seemed an insult- but stood as straight as she could, drawing herself up to the full measure of the scant inches she possessed. Her stance was somewhat crooked, however. Walking stick braced in her left hand, she stood with all her weight on her right leg. The left, he noticed, was turned inward at an odd angle and bent at the knee. It would neither straighten nor hold her weight to let her stand.

How strange that she should be crippled too…

He gave himself another mental slap.

_Stop it._

He couldn't afford to feel sympathy for her. It wasn't his fault she had a broken leg and couldn't do anything with it. Looking down at her- for there was no other way to look from his vantage of almost six feet- it seemed excessive for him to have to kill a creature so small, so fragile. He was twice her size, double her weight, and half her age. Scarcely the height of a seven-year-old, unable to run, and with bones likely as brittle as spun glass, what chance did she have against him? She would probably be gone in another year or two on her own anyway. But he couldn't afford to let her die of natural causes. The damage she could do, the trouble she would cause in the handful of years she had left was incalculable. No. It would have to be done.

A loud clack resounded off the empty walls of the room. He realized she'd dropped her walking stick. She stood balanced on one leg, the other doing little to steady her. What was she doing? He stopped short in the act of stooping to hand it back to her when she spoke:

"Why did you come here?"

"To kill you."

Indeed. So why was he attempting to return a possible weapon to her, no matter how laughable? He straightened. Very well. But this would be a fair fight, so to speak. Zero Point was useless against her anyway. Unlocking his gauntlets, he shuffed them off and let them clatter to the floor. He felt strangely naked without them, but they served no purpose now. He wouldn't need them for this. They stood silently, each defenseless before the other, and stared.

"Is that what you really want?"

He blinked.

"Of course. I can't let you keep outfitting Supers."

"I thought you killed them all."

"I…did…"

She'd caught him in a loop. He was indeed waging a one-man war against an enemy that could never truly be vanquished. For every Super he'd put to death, two more had been born. There was no way to end it, and yet he had to try.

"Only I am left."

"Yes."

"Tell, me what will you do with yourself after this?"

"I'll sell my—"

She cut him off.

"Mantra," she spat and gave a small snort. "Don't parrot your own propaganda. Do you really think there will be anything left? AnyONE left to sell your genius to? Even with all the other Supers gone, there will still be one standing."

He couldn't help flinching, stung by her words, by the truth in them. The world would be a better place without Supers, without vigilantes pretending to be better than everyone else. There was no room for a race that viewed themselves as superior. And yet…she was holding the glass up to him and showing him guilty of the very mindset he had sought to destroy. His own reflection- masked and caped- stared back at him from the wide lenses of her glasses, the image of the hero he had been forbidden to be.

"No!" he shouted. "No I'm not like them!"

His expression was one of both cold fury and panic; she met it evenly.

"I never said you were."

"Damn it!" he snapped. "Stop with the Jedi mind tricks!"

She smiled a little at this, amused.

"I never use power when words will do."

Silence. He felt his hands curling into tight fists at his sides and wondered that he hadn't attacked her yet. What the hell was he waiting for? Why couldn't he make himself lay a hand on her? Thirty seconds and it would be over. She'd be finished. All he had to do was knock her down. That alone might be enough to kill or at least KO her long enough for him to snap her neck. He swallowed hard at the bitter taste that had suddenly risen in his mouth as his stomach surged into this throat. He'd killed before, hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. Why did he quail, what made him weak and nauseous at the thought of twisting her little white head until her neck cracked in two? It was a struggle to force his stomach back into place, but he managed it. Why? Why was this happening? This should have been easy. What was he doing wrong?

"What is it you really want?"

He opened his mouth to reply and then shut it again. She wasn't going to accept any of the empty promises and falsely noble ideals he'd fed himself over the years. He had wanted to believe that things would be better without Supers, that equality across the board was best, that he could solve all the worlds' problems by getting rid of people he had perceived as tyrannical and self-righteous. He had wanted to be right, had wanted to be the one to make things better, to save them all. He had wanted to be a Hero. And now…

"I want it to stop…" Head down, knees shaking, it took a hearty sniff before he realized he was crying.

"Robert…" her voice was gentle and soft. He looked up, blue eyes wide with disbelief.

"You know my name?"

Her smile was kind and gentle as her voice had been. She did not answer, but the nameless expression on her creased face told him she had always known. He didn't even bother to ask her how.

"It's all right," she told him, one hand held out to him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He hadn't thought she would, that she was capable of doing him any damage. All the fight gone out of him, he sank to his knees and sat on the floor before her. He kept his head down, unwilling to look into those piercing brown eyes. A light touch on his shoulder made him flinch and jerk away out of instinct.

"It's all right," she assured him. "It's only me. I won't hurt you."

"I know…"

He let her lay one tiny hand on his shoulder, lean against him slightly to steady herself. With her other hand she cupped the side of his face, gently tilting his jaw upward.

"Look at me."

"No…" he squinted his eyes closed and turned his head to one side, unwilling to wrench completely out of her grasp. "I can't…"

"Yes you can."

"Please…please don't make me…" he whimpered, choking hard on tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Robert…"

The word was so gentle it hurt to hear it. Cringing as if struck, he raised his head a fraction.

"Look."

He could not have disobeyed if he wanted to. A command so soft, so utterly without demand could not be ignored. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. He had been afraid there would be judgment there, but instead he found himself reflected a second time in the twin mirrors of her spectacles. Only it was not the masked and jaded anti-hero that stared back at him this time. Perhaps it was the angle, or a trick of the ghostly light for a much younger boy, not an adult, gaped wide-eyed from the colorless world reflected in the glass. A young man, a teenager, the years seemed to melt away from the phantom of himself until a child of no more than eight remained.

"There is still good in you, Robert Pine. The beautiful child you once were isn't dead, only hidden, locked away. Don't be afraid to let him out again…"

The light must have shifted for the boy was gone, replaced by dark eyes full of a soft expression he could not name. Mirage had looked at him in a way similar to this, but not quite the same. There was a subtle but important distinction.

"What do you want from me?" he sniffed miserably, for the phantasm and gentle look had left him unhinged.

"I want to help."

He couldn't help flinching as she drew close and touched her lips to his forehead. Whatever fragile control he had left of himself crumbled. Fists clenched in his lap, he finally broke down, choked sobs fighting to escape his constricted throat. Grief, guilt and bitterness roiled inside him, fueling his tears and making him dizzy with emotion. He felt sure he was going to be sick if only he could focus long enough.

"Shh…" she had leaned and put her arms around his neck in a light embrace. Without thinking, he drew his arms around her and pulled her close. Even kneeling on the floor he was taller than she was; only the tips of her shoes brushed the cold marble as he held her. Dangling in his grasp, she smoothed his shaking shoulders with one hand.

"Cry if it helps. Cry all you want. It's all right."

He could not have stopped even if he wanted to. Tears dammed literally for decades, now free, were pouring from his eyes and were not likely to stop. She hadn't much of a shoulder to cry on, but he did his best to hide his face in the soft black fabric of her gown.

"It isn't fair…" he sniffed, the words muffled in her shoulder.

"No…it wasn't…" she agreed, stroking his hair. "But it's over now. Let go. It will be all right."

The injustice done to a child of eight and harbored for over fifty years was not an easy thing to release. It had been his one excuse, his reason, his proof that what he had done was both right and justified. The bitterness had been savored so long that it had become sweet and he had lost his taste for everything else. He knew he would be trading a mouthful of castor oil for strawberry icecream and yet he couldn't bring himself to spit it out.

"Please dahling…" she whispered in his ear. "Let it go…"

One hand still petting his hair, he felt her withdraw the other. Perhaps he was gripping her too tightly and something had pained her. It seemed she was adjusting a piece of her clothing from the way the back of her knuckles pressed into his chest and her sudden intake of breath. Turning her palm towards him, he felt one delicate finger tracing an "x" directly over his heart. He inhaled sharply as she drew a third line up between the legs of the "x". It was as if she'd slit him with a knife. He could feel himself bleeding though his costume did not grow wet. She had shifted in his arms, her breast pressed against his.

"Please…you don't have to do this alone…let go…"

With a shuddering breath, all the pain, the bitterness, the guilt, the anguish, was released. It gushed from the wound she'd carved in him like water from a dike. Only instead of spilling down his chest and over his knees, it was caught and held by a waiting vessel. He felt her cringe briefly and then latch her arms around him and pull, but not with her hands. Instead she caught the tide of emotions, seeming to drink it down, sucking the poison from his wound. The release of so much that had been held back for so long left him breathless and lightheaded. Instinctively he clung to her, hugging her close as a child would clutch a stuffed toy.

His tears came easier now, his sobs less pained. The bitterness draining from his heart, he was left with a queer, shivery sensation of blessed emptiness. Like the time he'd had food poisoning, the purge had been hellish but he felt so much better now that it was over. The last venomous drops trickling away, he took what felt like his first real breath in ages. The air felt cool and sharp in his lungs, but he gulped it hungrily. Vaguely he realized he'd fallen forward to lie on the floor, the marble, while hard, pleasantly cool against his cheek. He wasn't lying flat, however. Edna still lay in his arms, pinned beneath him, only her head visible above his shoulder. He hurried to pick himself up but found his strength almost entirely gone. With painstaking effort he hauled himself back up to sit on his knees, Edna cradled in his arms.

"E…?" he whispered hesitantly. She gave no answer. Eyes closed and lips parted slightly her face seemed pale and ghostly in the moonlight. She lay absolutely still and limp in his arms. Leaning his ear close to her lips he placed two fingers beneath her jaw. No warmth or moisture brushed his skin and her pulse was growing sluggish.

"Edna?" he shook her gently. "Edna Mode?"

Nothing.

Panic began to chill his insides. He couldn't let her die like this. He could not be responsible for her death. Not hers. It had been ages since second grade and Boy Scouts and CPR but the memory was dragged to the surface with all possible speed. She was small enough that he held her as he pinched her nose closed and covered her mouth with his own.

"C'mon, E, breathe," he pleaded between breaths. "Don't do this to me."

Three.

"Wake up."

Four.

"I know you're in there…"

Five.

"Please wake up…"

Six.

"E, _please…_"

Seven.

"E… Don't leave me…please…"

He lowered his head one more time but straightened as E suddenly gagged. She jerked in his arms, coughing and choking, fighting for breath. Robert let out a ragged breath of his own as Edna coughed herself back into consciousness. He held her quietly while her breathing settled. After a moment she calmed and looked up at him with bleary eyes and a tired smile. Lifting one trembling hand she drew her fingers down over the metaphysical cut she had made in his chest.

"You'll be all right now…" she smiled. Robert returned it as best he could.

Following the path of her hand he could almost see the edges sealing closed beneath her fingers. Blinking, he realized he wasn't imagining things. Like watching a 3D movie without the glasses he could see the visible and invisible super-imposed overtop one another. On one level E lay tired but unhurt in his arms, above and slightly to the left she lay smiling but horribly battered, her hair astray and her skin and clothing black with what looked like tar. A gaping hole in her own heart slowly oozed more of the thick, oily gunk onto her already filthy gown. The exhaustion radiating from her would have forced him to his knees if he hadn't already been sitting on the floor. Arms suddenly weak, he realized just how tired he was himself. Mustering what strength he had left, he pulled her close in a hug. A stifled cry from E made him loosen his grip and draw back. She rubbed gingerly at her middle with one hand, her breathing thick and cautious. Somewhere in all the angst, she'd either cracked or broken a rib. It occurred to him that he'd been laying on top of her for an undetermined length of time. The dead weight of an unconscious, full-grown man could not have been good for her already fragile bones.

"Did I hurt you…?"

E waved the question away.

"I'll be all right."

"I…I'm sorry…" he faltered.

"You didn't do it on purpose. And it's not important."

"But I…"

"Shhh…" she laid a trembling finger on his lips, silencing any further protests.

"I love you," her voice was soft and weak, but carried strength in conviction. "I hope you know that…"

Swallowing hard, he nodded mutely. She cringed and coughed hard, seeming to choke on something. When she had recovered, she spoke again. Robert had to lean close to catch her fading words.

"I have always loved you…every time…every place…"

He closed his eyes tightly on fresh tears, her words sharp and sweet as a knife in his heart. She reached and took his cheek once more into her tiny, trembling hand.

"You are the son…I could not have…"

He didn't even try to stop the tears pouring down his cheeks. Her strength fading, she stretched and kissed him, not on the cheek but on the lips. Robert didn't have time to be surprised. Instead he watched, confused, as her lips fell away from his, her eyelids drifting closed. He saw his own eyelids fall, his limbs become limp, his body slowly crumble to the floor with his adopted mother still held tenderly in his arms. They lay side by side on the floor, arms around one another protectively. She didn't have to tell him, he knew, but he asked anyway.

_Are we dead, mom?_

_Yes, dahling._

_Er…why did you kiss me like that?_

_It was the only way I could make sure you'd come with me._

_So… _you_ killed_ me

_Not quite. We were both dying anyway. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't be alone. _

He nodded quietly.

_Thanks, mom._

She smiled.

_You're welcome._


End file.
